


Part III: War

by lockedin221b



Series: The Way Blood Flows [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Homosexuality, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Master/Slave, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Touching, Nudity, Original Character(s), PTSD John, Partial Nudity, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slavery, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>c. 1800</p><p>John Watson is taken captive after he and his fellow Hunters fall victim to an unexpected attack. John is taken from the rest of his captured comrades and thrust into the life of a pet to a vampire estranged from his affluent vampiric roots: Sherlock. His only purpose is to provide sustenance for this eccentric vampire. He's not ready to give up on his life, though, so he bides his time until opportunity arises. In the interim, however, he finds himself being drawn further into the invisible lives of the inhuman creatures he is now surrounded by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [This gorgeous (nsfw) art](http://teabeforewar.tumblr.com/post/17660886262/and-now-that-valentines-day-is-over-heres-some) is the original inspiration for TWBF.
> 
> This is the final of three parts.
> 
> This story is more or less a crossover with one of my own worlds. So there's some mythos and lore tossed in from those stories. I try to give enough explanation without going into total full-blown exposition. But there are some things that won't make sense right off the bat, so I ask you to bear with me on that.
> 
> And, seeing as this is a fanfic, the usual caution that it is unrevised.
> 
> **PSA: There will be depictions of gore/violence/mutilation, non-con touching, attempted rape, and mentions of rape. There will be no full on n/c sexual acts beyond this.**

Over the next two months, a chaotic normalcy formed in John’s life. When Mary was away, across enemy lines, in dangers John didn’t want to think about but always did, he would bury himself in studying vampire and werewolf anatomy and physiology. His questions to Sherlock remained frequent, but they gradually shifted from understanding the words to understanding the more abstract questions. Occasionally he would post a hypothetical even Sherlock had to respond to with uncertainty.

When Mary made it out to Sherlock’s, often nights and sometimes weeks between visits, after she reported to everyone on her latest findings, she and John would tumble into bed together and spend little time elsewhere. It wasn’t always sex either, though that was generally at the top of their checklist. They would spend hours awake, talking or not, holding each other or simply lounging together. John would sometimes rest his head on her stomach and read through his texts, occasionally pointing things out to Mary or asking her opinion on something.

There had been one confrontation with Sherlock at the beginning. He cornered the two of them in the library the night after their first time, interrupting their blissful ignorance of the world around them.

He started in on Mary, having no real leverage against John. He called her a fool and reckless. Mary seemed to take it all in stride, shooting John looks that insisted he keep his growing anger in check. Sherlock’s mistake, however, was declaring Mary had no respect for herself in sleeping with John.

John leapt to his feet then and swung at Sherlock. It was useless; Sherlock caught his hand a fair distance from his face.

Mary stood between them, seething with anger. She pried Sherlock’s fingers from John, drawing blood as she did. “He is not your pet,” she told him in a tone that was as dangerous as it was quiet.

“Nor is he yours,” Sherlock replied.

“He is, however, my lover.” Mary released Sherlock then, blood on her nails and dripping down Sherlock’s fingers. “And if you want to be vocal and public about your complaints, I’m sure Father and Eliza will be a rapt audience. Otherwise, what I do and with whom I do it is no concern of yours.”

There was no question that Sherlock would keep quiet. Telling anyone outside the house would sign his own death warrant. So he sulked when Mary was around, and did nothing else.

John expected Sherlock to be just as put out with him. Instead, though, his mood was far less gloomy during Mary’s absences, and he never turned John away if he came to ask questions, so long as Mary was north of the Thames.

 

May was coming to an end, and John had forced Sherlock to open one of the windows in his cave to let in some fresh air. He told Sherlock that, if Sherlock insisted they discuss some of John’s studies in that room, Sherlock would have to compromise on things like fresh air and a decent seat and desk to spread out at.

The mystery they were attempting to solve at present, and had been working at for weeks now, was the physical impossibility of a vampire or werewolf being turned from one to the other. It was perfectly possible for any other race to be turned to either.

“Imagine each nature like a tier of demons,” John said, sketching out on a piece of parchment as he went. At Sherlock’s bitter expression he added, “I’m including humans here. It’s a metaphor.” He drew two levels. “Humans, witches, shifters. You have to be born one of these; you can’t become one later in life. But vampires and werewolves, they’re on a tier above. Change can’t happen across or down, but it can go up. So because the spirits of vampirism and lycanthropy are at the same level, and change can’t happen across one level, they cancel each other out.”

“We’re discussing science, John, not faith.”

“I know, I know.” John put down his pen and rubbed his face with both hands. He didn’t bother to remind Sherlock that he was the one who said faith was more tangible in this world. “It made more sense in my head.” He dropped his hands and looked over at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s expression changed radically. His eyes widened slightly and his mouth went taut.

“What?” John looked behind him, but no one had entered the room. When he turned back to Sherlock, he found the vampire’s expression had changed. “Are you smiling?”

“It’s not my fault you look ridiculous.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock vacated his chair and walked over to another desk. He returned with a small mirror and handed it to John.

John took it and held it up. He had several black smudges on his face. He looked at his hands and, sure enough, found the source there. “Oh god.”

Sherlock chuckled and took back the mirror, setting it aside.

“That’s a first.”

“Ink on your face?” Sherlock arched a brow.

“You, laughing. Like that. It was… genuine.”

Sherlock’s expression disintegrated at once back to its stoic nature.

“It’s not a bad thing. It makes you-” John cut himself off, not sure what the right word to use was.

“Human?” Sherlock offered with a faint sneer.

“No. Relatable.” The word he really wanted to use was “sympathetic,” but he didn’t think that would go over well with Sherlock. “Let’s get back to-”

“Quiet!” Sherlock held up a hand, body rigid and attentive. A tense moment later, he hissed, “Blood.”

Sherlock shot from the table and went straight to the open window. He pushed it out further before climbing onto the edge and leaping down. John bolted after him, gripping the sill and staring down into the darkness. He could make out Sherlock’s silhouette running away from the house.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, but to no avail. He turned and ran from the room, shouting for Greg instead.

The shifter met him at the top of the stairs between the first and second floors. “What’s wrong?”

“Sherlock,” John panted. “He just leapt from the window and bolted.”

“Do you know why?”

“He went still all of a sudden and said ‘blood.’”

“Was that it?”

John nodded.

“Stay here.”

“No.”

Apparently it was not worth wasting time arguing with John. Greg took the stairs in a single leap and wrenched open the door. John followed him two stairs at a time, knowing he had no chance of keeping up, but not about to be left behind. He managed to keep sight of the silver fox even as the distance between them continued to grow.

When the fox turned back into the man, though still running, John hoped it meant they were coming up on Sherlock and whatever he had gone after.

“Sherlock,” Greg called as he slowed, swinging his head from side to side.

“This way,” Sherlock shouted back. “It’s Mary.”

John’s heart lurched and he stumbled.

“She’s having a bit of trouble,” Sherlock added.

John followed Greg’s outline to the scene, where Sherlock and Mary were struggling with a very alive, though bloodied, werewolf in mid-change. It was thrashing wildly against Sherlock and Mary, who were trying to dodge its claws and restrain it at the same time. Now Greg was rushing into the fray.

At first, John couldn’t understand how the three of them were having such difficulty subduing a clearly injured werewolf. The longer it went on, though, he realised the werewolf was keeping itself between forms intentionally. It was constantly shrinking and growing, and, as a result of the ever-changing girth of its body and limbs, keeping a grip and landing a solid strike was proving difficult.

“The snout!” John shouted.

“What?” Mary called as she tried to break the werewolf’s arm, only to have her hold disrupted by a shrinking forearm.

“Aim for the snout!”

Greg was flat on his back, and Mary was still struggling with the wolf’s arms. It was Sherlock who was quickest to act, landing a fist solidly on a half-formed muzzle.

As John had hoped, the wolf was stunned long enough that its shifting faltered and it shrank to its less animalistic and less dangerousz form. Sherlock and Mary quickly saw to keeping it immobilised. With two sickening cracks, Mary broke both arms. At the same time, Sherlock gave the werewolf a hard enough cuff upside the head to knock it completely unconscious.

John ran over to Greg to help him up. His clothes, like the others’, were shredded, and he sported a deep triple gash on his thigh.

“How did you know?” Greg said as he took John’s offered shoulder for support.

“I didn’t. It was a guess.”

“A lucky one,” Mary heaved as she leaned against a nearby tree. She was the most rundown, but she looked minimally injured.

“An educated one,” Sherlock corrected, setting his penetrating gaze on John. “Care to explain?”

“Erm, it’s a weak spot.”

“We figured that out,” Mary said with a wry smile.

John looked uneasily at the three pairs of eyes watching him. He settled on meeting the most he was comfortable with, Mary’s, before diving into his reasoning, “The human nose is fairly weak. A wolf’s muzzle, even a werewolf’s muzzle, isn’t. There’s a lot of bone and relatively little cartilage, whereas a human nose is largely cartilage. But it’s also a much smaller and less sensitive target. Hitting a wolf’s nose might take it a bit by surprise, but only a solid break is guaranteed to hinder it. Between the two, though, you’ve got an enlarged sensitive area that is between cartilage and bone. I thought it might provide a significant weakness, since it was intentionally remaining between forms.”

No one said anything for quite a long time. At least, it felt like a long time. “That was,” Mary started breathlessly, though she didn’t seem able to come up with a final word.

“Quite brilliant,” Sherlock concluded. “And your rapid insight was invaluable. Now, I suggest we move her before she wakes up and discovers a way to set her arms.”

John looked closer at the body sprawled on the ground. It was definitely a woman, and she was completely bare of any clothes.

 

John showed up at his room with a pitcher of hot water and rolls of clean bandages. Mary was already in the process of peeling off her shredded and bloodied clothes. Most of the blood had dried, as she had refused to take care herself before seeing to Greg’s leg, which was the worst injury among the three of them. Once Greg was sufficiently healed and resting, she relinquished control of the situation.

“You were looking at her,” Mary said after John closed the door.

“What?”

“The wolf.”

John gave her a quizzical look as he set down the pitcher and bandages. “Everyone was?”

Mary raised her brow, though she looked amused rather than angry.

“Yes, Mary.” John rolled his eyes. “There was a completely naked woman sprawled on the ground. In my shock, I forgot to avert my gaze to honour our love.”

Mary laughed, but the sound was cut off with a wince as she peeled off the last of her shirt.

“Let me help.”

“I’ve got it.”

“I do know a thing or two about doctoring.”

Mary smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m used to doing it myself.”

John frowned as he began gently washing the dried blood from her back. “How often do you have to do it yourself?”

“Don’t worry. It’s not usually this bad.”

“I worry.” He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. “You couldn’t stop my from worrying.”

“I wish I could. I always come back, don’t I?”

“And you better keep coming back.” Ever since she had told John a few weeks back, after returning with a broken arm, that witches usually couldn’t heal themselves, he had had trouble sleeping during her absences.

He wrapped her torso with a delicate touch, and she began to relax.

“Why did you bring it back alive?”

“Sherlock wants to study a living specimen.”

John scowled. “How could the benefits of taking that risk possibly-”

Mary silenced him by covering his hand, which was cleaning her arm, with her own. “It’s alright, John.”

“This doesn’t look alright.” He indicated the gash that stretched from her elbow to her wrist.

“A good meal and I’ll heal quickly.”

He wanted to offer her his own blood. He’d read enough about vampire and half-vampire physiology by then to know fresh blood, especially human blood, had many of the same benefits for half-vampires as they did for pure vampires. Namely, it hastened the healing process up to a hundredfold. But the one time he had vocalised the offer, Mary was furious and told him to never offer something like that again. He still didn’t fully understand it.

“Mrs. Hudson is prepping one now,” he said instead.

“That woman is a blessing.”

John was helping Mary on with a fresh shirt when a wild shriek came from above. They both bolted out the hall and through to Sherlock’s room. They burst into the cave without a knock.

Sherlock was sitting calmly in a chair that had been moved to face his dissection table. Strapped down on the table was the werewolf, still howling. Her body was in chaos, rapidly growing and shedding fur. Her skin was blistered from head to toe. She kept growing claws only to have them fall off and leave her fingertips bloody. Piles of half-grown, bloodied claws were already gathering on the floor.

“What did you do to her?” John shouted over the screams.

Sherlock didn’t hear or, more likely, ignored him. Mary cross the room, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder, and steered him out of the chair and downstairs.

Once in the bedroom, with the sounds only slightly muffled, John and Mary both cornered Sherlock. It soon became clear, though, that Mary’s anger was rooted somewhere else entirely from John’s. “I thought you were experimenting.”

“I am, in a way.” Sherlock glanced behind him toward the stairs. “I’m losing valuable information-”

“If you were just going to kill her, we could have used her for information.”

“This is far more important.”

“What is?” Mary snapped.

Sherlock paused before answering, “She will be a message.”

“To James?”

Sherlock gave a curt nod.

That seemed to mollify Mary, but John was still far from easy about the whole thing. “What kind of message is that?”

“James wants power,” Mary said. “But he wants power in a way no one else has.”

“He wants what others have,” Sherlock said with a heavy scowl. “But he wants to twist them to his own macabre desires.”

“Still not understanding,” John interrupted.

“Think, John,” Sherlock snapped. “What have we been trying to understand for weeks?”

“The bites?”

Sherlock nodded. “For decades, James has been trying to find a way that he can have both.”

“But that’s-” A renewed, shrill scream from above finished the thought for him. John went rigid with the horrid realisation. “You bit her?”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed. “I bit her.” He turned on his heel and strode right back up to his cave.

Mary took John’s arm and led him from the room. “I need to report back to Eliza and Father.”

John gripped her hands. “You’re still hurt.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Mary, please. Think of yourself for once.”

“This is important.”

“So are you!” John took a deep breath to settle his nerves. “At least eat something. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Hudson.” With a soft laugh, she gave in, and they walked downstairs fingers entwined.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary returned early the next evening in her father’s carriage, along with Mycroft himself. As soon as Mrs. Hudson welcomed them in, Mycroft went straight to the third floor.

John looked at Mary. She was clutching her arms, folded across her torso, and she wore a heart-wrenching expression. “What’s wrong?”

Mary looked at him, green-rimmed irises glistening. “He told me about Victor,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I had no idea.”

John pulled her close and rested his chin on her head. “It’s alright,” he muttered.

“It’s not. It’s not alright. I knew James Moriarty was cruel, but-”

They were interrupted by Mycroft’s reappearance, at which John immediately, if reluctantly, retracted his embrace from Mary. Mycroft appeared slightly more ruffled than when he had gone upstairs. He looked them over, including Greg, who stood nearby. He gave them each a measured look before saying, “Let’s sit down.”

John and Mary took the sofa in the drawing room, John aching to hold her close, while Mycroft sat in the large armchair. Greg stood at his side. It was the first time John remembered seeing them like that, side-by-side. It looked… right.

Mycroft folded his hands in his lap. He settled his gaze on John first. “Mary has informed me of her relationship with you. While it is not one I approve of, I will not actively bring it to Eliza’s attention. However, you should know that, if asked directly, I will not lie.”

John nodded, and his hand immediately sought out Mary’s.

“Now, as for the matter of Sherlock. I have already told this to Mary, but I believe it will be pertinent for you two to know as well.” He indicated John and Greg with a gesture. “Few individuals actually saw Victor’s body, so few know the complete truth of what transpired. The cause of his death was not simple brutality. There are presently six individuals who I can say with certainty know what I am about to tell you. You two will make it eight. I expect you will not increase that number without a damn good reason and explicit consent from myself or Eliza.

“The night Victor was captured by James Moriarty was his first night as a vampire. Sherlock had turned him, though he had not informed anyone. However, Victor was still recovering from the transformation, which is extremely taxing. He was weak, weaker than he had been as a human.”

John nodded his understanding. He’d read enough to know just what Mycroft meant by taxing. For the first six-to-twelve hours after the blood exchange, the new vampire suffered incredible agony while his or her body changes inside and out. Organs once necessary as a human shut down, and the entire vascular system was rearranged and expanded. Not to mention the blinding light from the now permanently fully dilated pupils and the growth of the canines. After this initial period, the vampire was at its most vulnerable. For the next night and day, it would need to feed every four-to-six hours, or else the once human body would reject the changes and the incomplete vampire would quickly starve. This was what John asked about first.

“James fed him,” Mycroft replied. “He tried false kindness to win Victor over before torture. But we believe, once the change was set, Victor began to fight in earnest. Moriarty’s final act was to kill Victor slowly and painfully, and with hardly any effort on his part.”

“He bit him?” Greg said, eyes wide.

Mycroft nodded, and John shuddered. “It’s why Sherlock is obsessed about the potential for a successful double bite,” Mycroft said.

“What?” John shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Mary squeezed his hand. “Sherlock told me it was James who was looking for a way to manage a double bite, but he lied. It’s Sherlock himself who’s obsessed with finding a way to make it work.”

“Why, though?”

“Guilt,” Greg said with realisation. “He wants to prove to himself that he could have saved Victor. He doesn’t want anyone else to be responsible for Victor’s fate.”

John clenched his free fist. “That’s- that’s idiotic. And wasn’t Victor dead when Sherlock found him?”

Mycroft sighed, “As far as anyone knows, yes. Victor was certainly dead when I found Sherlock.”

“So he really was experimenting,” Mary muttered. “He wanted to see what the double bite did. The process.”

John shook his head though. “It sounds like he wanted to watch how Victor died. He couldn’t be there for Victor, so he’s punishing himself. Fifty years later, and he’s still punishing himself.”

“He’s been punishing himself this whole time,” Mycroft said darkly. “Why do you think he let himself starve again and again?”

“I thought he was a genius.” John scowled. “He’s really just a selfish idiot though, isn’t he?”

“He’s heartbroken,” Mary said, trying to soothe John’s anger. “I can’t imagine what it’s like. I don’t want to.” She looked up at her father. “So the body isn’t a message for James.”

“No.”

“I’m so sorry, Father. If I had known this is why he wanted a live wolf-”

Mycroft held up a hand. “You are not to blame. However, in the future, any peculiar requests will be approved by myself or Eliza first.”

Mary nodded and looked down at her lap, suddenly giving off an impression of someone much younger.

Mycroft stood, and John and Mary joined him. “I must return to the city.” He looked warily at John and Mary, their hands still clasped together. He let out a sigh as if he’d lost an argument that hadn’t even been spoken aloud. “Since your mother is accompanying Eliza to North America for the next several weeks, you may remain here while you heal—in Gregory’s stead.”

Mary’s expression lit up and her hand tightened around John’s.

“I still expect you to keep an eye on him,” Mycroft added sharply.

“Of course, Father.”

Mycroft gave a curt nod and walked out of the room, Greg following on his heels. Mary and Greg exchanged quick smiles before he was gone.

 

When the smell of putrid flesh perforated John’s room later that evening, he and Mary went up to investigate the source. They found Sherlock sulking in a chair, completely inattentive to the rotting corpse on his dissecting table.

John had to turn away at once, covering his mouth. Mary bristled. “Get rid of it.”

“Get rid of what?” Sherlock muttered.

Mary grabbed the back of his chair and turned it, wooden feet scraping against the floor, until it faced the body. “That. It’s going to start attracting attention.”

Sherlock didn’t so much as glance at the body, or Mary for that matter.

Mary let out a frustrated sigh before rolling up her sleeves and approaching the body.

“You’re really going to make her do that?” John seethed through his hand.

Sherlock ignored him as well.

John walked over to where Mary was doing her best to wrap up the body. The wolf’s skin, which had been scabbed and bleeding during the rejection of Sherlock’s bite, was now black and oozing pus in several places. Most of the teeth had fallen out, and neither nail nor claw remained on any finger or toe.

“You’re going to throw up,” Mary commented quietly.

“I’m fine. I just won’t inhale.”

“Which is so easy for humans. Go on, I’ll take care of this. Fetch some flint so we can do this properly.”

John nodded and hastened from the room. He obtained some flint from Mrs. Hudson and met Mary outside below the window of Sherlock’s cave. The body, such as it was, had been wrapped tightly in heavy canvas and dropped out the window. Mary hefted it over her shoulder and together they walked into the woods.

“Will he run?” John said. “While we’re gone?”

Mary looked back toward the house, now obscured by trees sporting new leaves. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. Let’s be quick anyway.”

John gathered enough kindling to start the fire while Mary carved a deep trench with a few spells. She dropped the body in, and John cringed at the sound it made. They piled on the kindling, lighting the last piece before tossing it in. Then they stepped back while the flesh slowly burned.

“You can go back,” Mary offered.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Mary smiled and brushed back his bangs. “Go on. It’s alright.”

He felt guilty, but he was certain he would pass out or throw up before long. He kissed her cheek before returning to the house.

John went back up to the cave. He opened several windows without bothering to ask. Sherlock said nothing. He remained in his chair, brow furrowed, eyes distant. John pulled a stool up beside his chair.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” he said quietly.

Sherlock’s gaze slid into focus, and that focus landed on him. “Do not speak of things about which you understand nothing.”

“I understand more than you think.” John’s expression darkened. “Remember how you had everyone I ever knew killed, just because you have some strange obsession with me?”

Sherlock said nothing, though his intense stare left John.

“For days after things settled out here, when I remembered that bit, I felt guilty. It was my fault they’re dead. If they hadn’t known me, hadn’t taken me in as a boy, a lot of them would still be alive.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his mouth. “On the contrary, your skills likely prolonged many of their lives.”

“Thanks, but that isn’t my point. I told Mary how I felt once, when it was so suffocating I couldn’t even think straight. You know what she said? ‘There are a lot of people to blame for what happened, and not a single one of them is yourself.’ And she’s right. You’re to blame. Mycroft’s to blame. The ones who made the actual attack are to blame. But there was no way I really could have prevented it from happening.”

“Quaint.”

John hopped off the stool, knocking it to the ground in the process. He stood in front of Sherlock’s chair and braced his hands on the armrests. “You didn’t know James Moriarty was after Victor. You didn’t know he was going to kidnap Victor that night. You didn’t know where he was being held, what was being done to him. Sherlock, you didn’t kill Victor. James Moriarty did, and only him. Don’t put yourself through hell a second time because of a hypothetical that could never have existed. Moriarty would never had let you have Victor before he was truly and completely dead. You were never going to be able to bring him back.”

Sherlock dropped his hands to John’s arms and dug his nails in. John yelped and tried to pull back, but Sherlock forced his arms to stay where they were. He leaned forward and repeated in a voice that made John’s skin prickle, “Do not speak of things about which you understand nothing.” He let go and John stumbled back. He shot Sherlock a glare before fleeing from the room, nursing his injured arms.

In his room, he cleaned and wrapped his wounds before Mary returned, making sure the bandages were well covered by his sleeves.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary spent the rest of the evening locked away with Sherlock. She didn’t join them for supper, and John fell asleep without her by his side. He woke the same way. It went on for several days, the only breaks being when Sherlock showed up to eat. He ignored all of John’s questions about Mary. When John finally went out to the hall and slammed on Sherlock’s door, Mary answered only to tell him she was fine, and then disappeared back inside.

Greg came back after a week, and John explained what had been going on—what little he knew. “I don’t get it. Aren’t they usually yelling or throwing things at each other?” John asked Greg over breakfast.

“Usually. But you have to remember, they are brother and sister.”

“I didn’t think it was all that important to them.”

“Mary’s birth was what pulled Sherlock out of his deepest dark spell. In over fifteen years, he hardly spoke a word to anyone. He was still at Mycroft’s then. I remember the first time he saw Mary. I was sitting up with her while Anthea and Mycroft both got some rest. He came into the nursery and didn’t even acknowledge my presence. When he picked her up, I was so afraid he was going to hurt her. But he just held her. She didn’t cry. Neither of them made a sound. After a few minutes, he put her back in her bassinet and walked out. The next day, he got into some stupid argument with Mycroft about—damn, I don’t even remember what.” Greg smiled. “It was good, in a way, just to hear his voice again. Pretty sure Mycroft let him win that argument, too, whatever it was about.”

“I thought they hated each other.”

Greg shook his head. “No. They’re a lot alike. Wilful, clever, resourceful. Mary butts heads with Mycroft as much as Sherlock, only she does it in private. I think they get into fights because they’re so similar, but, at the end of the night, they do care greatly for one other.”

Surprisingly, Mary joined them a few minutes later. Neither John nor Greg said anything, which made her look at them with suspicion. “Gossiping?”

“Always,” Greg teased.

John, though, felt a need for honesty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you two were actually close. Greg was explaining.”

Mary stared at him for a moment. She sat at his side and leaned her head on his shoulder. “He needed me.”

“It’s alright.” He kissed her head. “Is he still…”

“Sulking? Afraid so. He’s not as bad, though. He finally started yelling at me again.” She smiled, briefly. “I suppose Father wants me back out there?”

Greg nodded. “He knows you’ve got to be healed by now. I am, and I was the worst off.”

“Alright. I’ll leave in a few hours.”

John gave her a desperate look. He’d hardly spent any time with her. She didn’t seem to notice, though, as she was focused elsewhere, eating her breakfast slowly and with little attentiveness.

 

After Mary was gone, John went to Sherlock’s room. He was surprised when Sherlock beckoned him in at the bedroom door. The vampire was on his own, much more luxurious window bench, one knee bent up and his chin resting on it. He had never looked less imposing.

“What do you want?” Sherlock growled. “I ate last night.”

“I know. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why?”

John rolled up his sleeves and looked down at his arms. There were still raw red marks from Sherlock’s nails. “Lately, every time you show yourself to be the monster I’ve always believed you to be, you turn around and start acting…”

“Relatable?” Sherlock sneered.

“Vulnerable.”

Sherlock lifted his head and glared at John.

John lowered his arms, his sleeves falling to cover the new scars. “Maybe, if you started acting halfway decent, you’d even be redeemable. But you’re too busy being cruel and making a show of it, and you’re too busy trying to make yourself suffer for something that wasn’t your fault. You’re too busy killing yourself slowly. You would have, I think, if Mary hadn’t been born. I’d be in a better situation. Or, hell, maybe I’d just be dead.”

“Why are you saying this?” Sherlock was angry, but he was also confused.

“Tell me about Victor.”

Sherlock hissed, his entire body going rigid. “Get out.”

John nodded and left.

It wasn’t the last time he made the request, though. Every few days, usually after John had asked a question about werewolf physiology, he would prompt Sherlock to tell him about Victor. Every time, Sherlock would demand he leave the room. John didn’t let up. He wasn’t sure why, didn’t know what he was trying to get at, but he kept at it. Maybe it was that Sherlock never refused his entry, that he still was willing to answer his questions about anatomy, though he must have known what John would follow up with.

 

When a month had passed with no word from Mary, Greg set off to Mycroft’s. He returned the next night with no news. Her last message had reached Mycroft two weeks prior. Since then, they had sent out reconnaissance, but each returned without a scrap of information as to Mary’s whereabouts.

Another week passed. The entire household was startled when, one night not long after lunch, Mrs. Hudson screamed.

John took the stairs two at a time and found Mrs. Hudson and Greg bent over a body.

“No, no. No,” Greg was saying over and over. “Talk to me, love. Talk to me. Mary!”

John went weak, stumbling the last few steps to see the person Greg was cradling in his arms. It was hardly recognisable as Mary. She was missing patches of hair, her face was covered in bleeding scabs, and several of her teeth had fallen out. John had seen it all before, almost two months ago in Sherlock’s cave.

Sherlock himself appeared and shoved John and Greg out of the way. He collapsed to his knees and lifted Mary into his lap. “Who did it?” he snarled. “Who did this to you?”

Mary reached up and touched Sherlock’s cheek with raw fingertips. She didn’t speak, but Sherlock’s expression still darkened.

“I’ll kill him. I swear, I will put an end to his wretched life.” Then he held Mary close to his chest, shoulders quivering. “Don’t go,” he whispered into her thinned hair. “Don’t leave me here alone.” A moment later, he snapped her neck.

John leapt on Sherlock before he knew what he was doing. He was screaming and trying to tear Sherlock away from Mary.

Sherlock stood and threw him back into the stairs.

“You killed her,” John gasped, tears streaming down his face.

“No,” Greg muttered. He was hunched over Mary’s face, brushing his fingers through her hair, or what was left of it. “She was already dead. He just ended her suffering.”

John was shaking head to foot. He lunged forward, though not at Sherlock. He knelt above Mary’s head and wept, tears falling onto her still face. “How could you?” John couldn’t bring himself to look at Sherlock. “She was your sister. How could you do that to her?”

“Do you think I wanted to? She was begging me!”

“She didn’t say anything!” John felt his chest ring hollowly.

“Not to you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Shut up,” Greg murmured. “Both of you, just shut up.” He rose to his feet and ran through the still open front door, shifting as he did.

 

They burned and buried her in a graveyard near Mycroft’s manor. Mycroft and Anthea left not long after they set the fire. Greg stayed another couple hours. John and Sherlock remained until the last flames died, and together they filled the grave in silence.

On the walk back to the manor, Sherlock said, “Mary and I were exclusively telepathic with one another.”

John looked over at him. “What?”

“We could communicate through thought alone, but only with each other, and at close proximity.”

John said nothing. He wasn’t sure what to say, or if he should say anything.

Sherlock looked at him. “That’s how she asked me. She told me James had severed her vocal cords right before he bit her. They never had a chance to heal, so she was effectively mute. I was the only person she could communicate with at that point, so she dragged herself across the river and to my door before she died. And once she had told me everything I needed to know, she asked—pleaded—that I kill her so she wouldn’t have to endure anymore agony.” He looked away from John. “I know there’s no way to survive a double bite, not even for a half-vampire. A quick death is the only reprieve.”

Sherlock stepped up to the front door of the manor, but John grabbed his arm. “Victor was alive when you found him, wasn’t he?”

Sherlock pulled his arm away and walked inside without a word, leaving John to follow as silently.

 

There was no time wasted between Mary’s burial and planning the next step. Agreeing on a plan of action, however, was proving difficult. The main disagreement was whether to strike Moriarty as a lone target, or wage all out war with the werewolves.

Sherlock said striking down Moriarty would incite war anyway, and they ought to act as if war had already begun. Mycroft argued declaring war wasn’t worth the consequences. He never elaborated what those consequences were, so John asked Sherlock that morning when they returned to their room.

“Eliza,” Sherlock sneered. “An all-out war would require her, as Valden, to disown Mycroft.”

“Why?”

“The Valden is supposed to be impartial. She cannot condone war because of a single death, no matter how she might like to.”

“You think she would? Condone the war, if she wasn’t Valden?”

Sherlock turned to John as if inspiration had struck him. “Yes,” he replied slowly. “I am almost certain she would.” He left the room without another word.

John climbed into the single bed. On their first day at Mycroft’s, Sherlock told him they would have to keep up appearances. While the staff would likely keep hush about any discrepancies in their act as Master and pet, Anthea was likely to report everything to Eliza. John hadn’t known exactly what that entailed until he saw the one bed. He offered to sleep on the floor, if he could just have a blanket, but Sherlock told him to use the bed, as he didn’t much care for sleeping anyway. The first day, John slept uneasily, certain he would wake with Sherlock on top of him. He went unbothered, though.

That day, after burying Mary and talk of war, John slept deeply but uneasily. He dreamt of Mary, of James biting into her, of Mary’s face in rapid deterioration from its former beauty until it was nothing but blackened bone. He woke with a shout.

It was still day beyond the heavy curtains. Sherlock had returned and was perched in the deep windowsill seat. He was watching John.

“Nightmare,” John muttered. He laid back down and turned over.

A moment later, the mattress sank under added weight. John sat up and looked at Sherlock, who was now seated beside him with his back to the headboard and he legs stretched out in front of him.

“What are you doing?”

“Lie down.”

“W-”

Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder and eased him back down. “Close your eyes. I won’t harm you.”

John complied, heart still racing. He felt long fingers begin to comb gently through his hair. He squeezed his eyes tight.

“Relax,” Sherlock said in a quiet and surprisingly mild voice. “I did this for Mary whenever she had nightmares.”

John remembered the night he looked in Sherlock’s room and found Mary asleep on his bed, Sherlock sitting up beside her as he was now sitting beside John. “Did she have nightmares often? I don’t remember her having any.”

“She used to, but they had grown less frequent over the years.”

“What did she dream about?”

“I think that is a discussion for another time, as it seems highly illogical to discuss disturbing imagery when you are trying to dispel your own.”

John smiled. “A simple ‘I’ll tell you later’ would have sufficed.”

“Quiet.”

As uncomfortable as it made John feel mentally to have Sherlock sitting there, soothing him, his body began to relax. When he drifted off again, it was with the image of Mary, not Sherlock, by his side.


	4. Chapter 4

Eliza and Kieran arrived unexpectedly the next day. At least no one else expected it, but John saw Sherlock’s half-hidden smile at Mycroft’s shock. She convened a meeting at once. That was when John experienced firsthand what Kieran meant by pets having more knowledge and power than some other vampires or shifters or witches. No mere servant or slave would have been allowed in that room.

Kieran lounged in the corner on a large cushion, much like the one John had used during his inspection. Kieran looked relaxed, but John had the distinct feeling he was as attentive to the conversation as John. As for himself, John sat against the wall directly behind Sherlock’s chair.

“Sherlock tells me you are planning a war,” Eliza said.

Mycroft shot Sherlock a furious look before pleading his case. “I was planning no such thing, Eliza. I understand you must remain neutral in such-”

“Do it.” Eliza’s words as much as her relaxed tone took everyone by surprise.

“What?” Mycroft and Anthea chimed together.

“I hereby denounce you, Mycroft, and, by extension, Sherlock.” She set her hands flat on the table and leaned forward. “Now teach those bastard mongrels that it is poor judgement to not only kill but deform our kind in such hateful ways.” She stood up and Kieran snapped to his feet. They walked out without another word.

“You,” Anthea said, turning on Sherlock. “You fool!” She let out something like a screech and fled from the room.

That left only Mycroft and Sherlock at the table. Mycroft buried his face in his hands. “What have you done?”

“What needed to be done. What was best—for everyone.”

“How?” Mycroft shouted, pointing at the shut door. “How is this best?”

Sherlock stood and straightened his waistcoat. “We avenge Mary and—finally—Victor’s deaths. We get our war. And you, my dear maker, finally get your lover back.”

He turned and strode out of the room, John hurrying after him. “What did you mean, he gets his lover back?”

“Without the Holm name attached, Anthea will want nothing to do with Mycroft. I imagine she’ll be gone in a fortnight.”

John rushed ahead and turned to stand in front of Sherlock. “You did that for Mycroft?”

“It was one element of the equation.” Sherlock sidestepped him and continued walking.

John followed him back to the bedroom, his eyes never once leaving Sherlock’s back.

“Why do you keep staring?” Sherlock snapped.

“You’re being… relatable.”

Sherlock scowled.

John smiled. “I promise I won’t tell and ruin your reputation.” He walked past Sherlock to the window. Below, Eliza’s carriage was already gone. “Tell me about Victor,” John said quietly.

“He was starving when I found him.”

John turned. Sherlock walked over and seated himself on the cushioned sill. John sat on the opposite side.

Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes, but instead looked out at the city. “Seventeen. I admit, it was his beauty that stopped me from feeding on him. I’d never had a pet before then, though Mycroft had been encouraging it for almost a decade at that point. He was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. An Adonis, if I’m going to wax poetic. Through his emaciated state, there were signs he had once been strong. He was still strong, clinging to life the way he did. So I picked him up and carried him back to Mycroft’s.” A faint smile ghosted across Sherlock’s mouth. “Mycroft was furious that I had brought a human into the house without asking. I told him he was my pet and to piss off.

“Mrs. Hudson helped me revitalise Victor. When he was speaking again, he didn’t ask where he was or who I was or why I had saved him. He didn’t even thank me at first. The first words I ever heard from his lips were, ‘You must be a demon; no angel would ever take me in.’ He had been ostracised by the locals for his affinity of men. He showed me the bruises on his body from where they had stoned him, though I had already seen them. No one gave him food, not even when he offered to work for the barest of sustenance. 

“When he came around to asking what I wanted of him, I told him only that I wanted to keep him. He was so compliant. I think he had worse expectations than the reality of the situation. Yes, worse than being fed on by a vampire. When a week passed and I had yet to touch him, he asked me why.

“I told him I wasn’t human. He smiled and said he already knew that, that I was a demon, remember? I told him what I was, and he went very quiet. When he spoke again, he asked if this was Hell after all. I told him it didn’t have to be. A few days later, I asked to feed on him. He obliged without complaint.

“It stayed like that for weeks. Whenever I asked to feed, he nodded and exposed his neck—I was a more typical vampire in those days. When I asked why he was so willing, he said the life he had here was better than dying. At least here he was fed and warm. I asked if there was anything else he wanted. He told me books. His father had been a learned man, and he had taught Victor Greek and Latin and even a little Arabic. I found books I thought he might like and gave them to him. I hardly saw him without a book after that day, even one simply tucked under his arm.

“You might not believe it, but he kissed me first. It was right after I had fed. I began to pull away when he took hold of my face and kissed me. When I asked why, he said it was only fair that he got to taste me in return. Our relationship changed rapidly from then on.

“He was my pet for three years before I asked Mycroft for permission to turn him. I was a Holm, after all. We did not make other vampires on a whim. Mycroft told me that he would speak to Eliza. A few weeks later, Eliza herself showed up to inspect Victor. He was clearly frightened, but also brave. Then she sent him away and interviewed me, asking me why I wanted to turn him. When I told her I was in love, she laughed. She said love was no reason to change a pet. After all, look at Kieran? There were other ways to keep a pet around and young far longer than was natural for a human.

“I told her I wanted Victor to be my equal. She said the only way that could happen would be for Mycroft to turn him. If I turned him he would still be inferior to me. I was furious. I didn’t want Mycroft near Victor; I didn’t want anyone near Victor but myself. So I told her I would still rather turn him than leave him human. She finally agreed on the condition that Victor be willing, truly and completely. I asked what she meant by that, and she told me I had to give him an option: the bite or freedom.

“I was terrified after that. I didn’t want to lose Victor, but I did want him to be more my equal than to be owned. He could tell something was bothering me for days after Eliza’s visit, and finally got me to speak my thoughts aloud. I told him what I wanted: him, free and yet still mine. He insisted I gave him the choice, so I did, and he chose the bite. He chose to stay with me. I had never before and have never since felt as content as I did in that moment. We went through with it the following night, not thinking to tell anyone. Once the first stage had passed, I went out to get blood. Mostly from butchers. Killing that many humans would have drawn attention.

“When I returned, Victor was gone. I tracked him down and discovered a wolf’s smell at the point Victor’s disappeared. The rest, you already know.” He didn’t shy away from meeting John’s gaze. “I starved myself then because I didn’t want to live. I had no idea what the Hunger was at the time. I didn’t know my own body would betray me like that. I continued to test my mind against my body.”

“Still do,” John said. “Don’t you?”

Sherlock raised his brow. “Do I? When’s the last time I missed a meal, John?”

John opened his mouth, but he didn’t have an answer. It had been a while. Even with Mary’s death, Sherlock still fed a little every two days.

“I’m tired of living, John, but I’m also tired of dying.”

John rested his head against the windowsill. “Sometimes they feel like the same thing.”

“Do you know why I didn’t go through with killing James the night I was supposed to be executed?”

John shook his head.

“I didn’t go to the priory to ask the Sisters for a way to kill him. I went to ask them for a way to keep you safe from him.”

“Why? Why are you obsessed with me?”

“‘Obsessed’ may be too strong a word.”

“Is it? You asked Mycroft to organise a slaughter just to get your hands on me. You stare at me almost constantly. Yes, I have noticed. Mary-” John swallowed. “Mary said it was because I’m unpredictable. I don’t know what she meant, but it still doesn’t make any sense. As for being smart? I wasn’t even literate when I arrived.”

“And look how much you’ve learned in such a short span of time. You’re reading texts I doubt even Mycroft could comprehend without assistance. Your questions and ideas are almost always innovative. And, from what I saw when you were with the Hunters, you’re as skilled with your hands as you’ve become with your mind. And yes, John, you are unpredictable. I could never have anticipated you even playing the role of my pet, to save the lives of people you had every right and reason to hate. To fall in love with Mary.”

John looked down, his chest tight. He jumped when he felt Sherlock’s hand on his neck.

Sherlock lifted the chain over John’s head. “Tomorrow, I will escort you to the nearest portal.”

“Why?” John felt the bareness of his neck. Most nights he had forgotten it was there.

“Eliza will have nothing more to do with this house. Your presence is no longer a guarantor of my life, or your own.”

“What about Moriarty? Aren’t we going after him?”

“Not you, John. You would be killed easily and, if you were lucky, quickly. There is no point in you wasting your life like that. James Moriarty will die, I can promise you that.”

John felt like he was giving up, that he should do everything he could to avenge Mary’s death, but he knew Sherlock was right. He wouldn’t last long on the front line.

 

Sherlock made good on his promise and saw John to the portal at dusk. “If you would like,” Sherlock said before John stepped through, “I will send word when the deed is done.”

John nodded. “Yeah, I think that’ll help me rest a little easier.”

“Your assistance has been invaluable John.” He pulled a small box from his pocket and passed it to him. “If you so choose, use it. I may no longer be a Holm, but I imagine I still hold some local sway, even if it is only as Mycroft’s deranged mistake. It may keep you safe, if necessary. But it is only that: a safeguard, not a claim.” He left before John had a chance to open it.

It was a leather wristband. Inside was a piece of curved metal stamped with Mycroft’s emblem, and a second John had not seen before: an S. It was constructed so the metal and seals could not be seen unless the wristband was removed. John put it on and walked through the portal.


	5. Chapter 5

John made a priority of separating himself from everything in his past, including, with regret, Wiggins and Toby. He sent them a message that he was well, but that he had to move on. His next step was filching a few coins from the bastard foreman from his short-lived employment.

He returned south of the river, found work as a physician’s assistant, and managed to make a hole for himself where there were no Hunters, no vampires, and the only nightmares were in his head, and fading. He still wore the wristband Sherlock had given him, but the rest of his things—his clothes and boots—he had sold and replaced with rougher, sturdier counterparts. Before long, the city was deep into autumn, and the first frosts had come in the night.

John was enjoying a quiet pint to himself at a nearby inn when he overheard the proprietor say, “Watson? That’s him.”

He dropped his hands beneath the table and began releasing the buckle of his wristband. When a broad-shouldered man with pupil-engulfed irises sat down across from him, he set the leather on the table with the emblem-stamped metal facing up.

The man gave him a cruel smile and pushed it toward John. “I’m not afraid of the cowardly and the dead.”

John’s stomach twisted. _Dead? Which one?_ “Who are you?”

“Sebastian Moran.”

John picked up his wristband and buckled it back on. “Did he send you? Found out I was still alive and didn’t like it?”

“James is dead.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t. But he is dead, as is your old Master.”

John kept his expression as blank as possible. He simply nodded and said, “Then what do you want with me?”

“James wanted you to have a message, and I don’t like leaving business unfinished, even if it’s with the dead.”

“Fine. What is it?”

Sebastian leaned in, bearing his teeth in what might have been a grin. “The bitch was pregnant.” He let out a gruff laugh and left.

It felt as if John’s heart was pounding in his skull. He abandoned his half-finished pint and made his way out of the inn. Sebastian was nowhere to be seen. John made for the nearest portal, but it took him almost half an hour to reach Mycroft’s manor. He had intentionally settled some distance from the place.

The building was decimated. It stood as a skeleton of charred timbres and blackened brick. Then John took a moment and looked up and down the street. He had walked there blindly, ignoring everything else but his goal. Now that he looked, he realised it was deserted. Well after dark, and not a single vampire or shifter or witch walking the streets. Some of the large houses had also taken damage, though most were broken windows and doors. None were in the state Mycroft’s was.

“John?”

He turned and saw someone walking slowly toward him. “Who’s there?”

They removed the hood of their cloak, and the face he was met with was one he had not seen in almost a year.

“Molly?”

“Oh, John!” She ran forward and embraced him. “What are you doing here? It’s not safe.”

“What happened?”

Molly shook her head. “They lost, John. The vampires lost. No one saw it coming. We expected it to go on for months, years maybe. But the wolves knew exactly what targets to hit, and everyone else fled. Every vampire, and every witch or shifter that was loyal to one.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve been in Cardiff. When Mycroft and Greg arrived, they told me everything.”

“They’re safe?”

Molly nodded. “And Mrs. Hudson. She’s declared she’s retiring and wants nothing more to do with them. She doesn’t mean it, not really. They’ve set her up comfortably. Oh, John. It’s awful, though. Why are you here?”

“I had a visit,” John said, grinding his teeth. “From Sebastian Moran.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Unfortunately. Molly, he said Sherlock was dead.”

Molly bit her lip and nodded. “It was horrible. That was their last move, the wolves’. They paraded his body down the street, and everyone ran.”

“And Moriarty?”

“Dead as well. It’s poor consolation.” Molly looked up suddenly, turning her head from side to side for a moment. “It’s not safe for you here, not anymore. Quick, before they smell you.” She hurried him in silence to a nearby portal. “You’ll be alright?”

“Will you?”

Molly smiled and nodded. “I can do a little more than heal. It was good to see you again, John. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

“So am I.”

“Go, quickly.” She gave him a push through the portal.

It took John more than an hour to return to the small flat he called home. It was after midnight by then, and he fell into bed exhausted in mind and body. Despite that, he couldn’t sleep until the sun began to rise, and shortly after he had to dress and leave for work.

 

After another week, John was able to barter time off to visit an ailing relative in Cardiff. It was a two-day journey, and it took another day for John to find a portal. He was relying on his wristband to keep him alive, and so he kept it loosely buckled.

There were many vampire sympathisers in the city, though, and it only took a few hours to find Mycroft’s new home. It was largely scaled down from his previous accommodations, but it was still in the wealthier part of the city.

Greg himself answered the door. He was stunned to see John, but almost instantly pulled him through the door and embraced him. “Where the hell did you come from?” he said once he had let John go and closed the door.

John told him about Sebastian, and then about Molly. “Sherlock’s really dead?”

Greg nodded gravely. “Mycroft hasn’t been the same since. Nothing has, though, not really.”

As they stood there, John noticed something odd about Greg. It took him a moment to realise what it was. “Your eyes!”

“Oh. I convinced him about a month ago. I told him he didn’t need Eliza’s permission anymore, and hell if he was going to spend the next however many decades or centuries alone on top of being outcast.” Greg smiled. “I think he was mostly afraid I would be targeted if he turned me. I told him I became a target the day he fell into bed with me.”

“I’m glad you two aren’t alone.”

“So am I. Do you have a place to stay, on the other side?”

“Not yet. I wanted to find you first.”

“Stay here. It’s safe enough.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. We have a couple spare rooms.”

“I-”

Greg put a hand on his shoulder. “Human or not, you’re family, John. I think Mycroft would agree with me, after Mary, and after everything you did for Sherlock.”

John thanked him and let himself be shown to a room. Greg told him to come down in a bit for something to eat, though he couldn’t promise it would be much. John spent a few minutes sitting in the quiet room, collecting himself, trying to piece everything together in a way that was far less shattering and heavy. He wasn’t successful.

 

He only stayed for another night before leaving. Mycroft had hardly looked at him his entire visit, let alone spoken, but before he walked out the door, he took one of John’s hands in both of his. It was the one with the wristband. He laid his fingers on the leather and said, “Hide this well in London. But wherever else you may go, keep it close. If the time comes, I will honour Sherlock’s promise.”

John gripped his hand and thanked him. He walked away never expecting to see either of them again.

Two nights later, he was back home. He trudged up to his flat and locked himself in for the night. He went to the stove and started a fire, and he was about to peel off his travel-worn clothes when he heard something in the room move.

John grabbed the poker from the fire and held it out in front of him. “Who’s there?”

A shadow on his bed moved.

John sidestepped to retrieve a candle and lit it.

The shadow sat up, blankets tumbling from narrow shoulders.

The poker crashed to the floor. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to him, but it didn’t seem he was quite seeing John.

John set the candle down and approached slowly. “Is it you? They said you were-”

Sherlock lunged and knocked John to the ground. He pinned him down easily. He looked absolutely feral in the light from the stove’s low flames.

“Sherlock, calm down.”

Sherlock licked his lips, and his eyes fell to John’s neck.

With a sickening drop in his gut, John realised what he was seeing. “You’re still in there, Sherlock. You’ve got to be in there, or else I’d be dead, right? Let me up. I’ll let you eat, just let me go and calm down.”

For a terrifying moment, John didn’t think he was reaching Sherlock. Then Sherlock abruptly released him and scrambled back against the bed frame.

John sat up and rolled up his sleeve.

“No,” Sherlock said, staring at John’s bared wrist. His voice was hoarse.

“If you don’t eat now, you will end up killing people.”

Sherlock didn’t look away. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself.”

John looked around the room until he spotted what he needed. He retrieved a knife and a shallow bowl, set the bowl on the table, and cut his arm with his back to Sherlock. He clenched his hand until he had filled the bowl with what he hoped was enough to at least soothe Sherlock’s growing frenzy. He pulled down his sleeve and held a hand over the cut while he carried the bowl in the other.

Sherlock had watched him eagerly the whole time, and now yanked the bowl from John and downed the blood. He licked the bowl clean.

John picked up the poker and put it back in the stove. Then he sat across from Sherlock on the floor. “Better?”

“Barely,” Sherlock muttered. He had abandoned the bowl and was pressing the heel of his palm to his creased brow. “Give me a moment.”

“Of course.” He watched as Sherlock’s breathing slowed and evened out, and his body began to lose some of the tension.

“Thank you. Once again, you have saved my life.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“As did I.” He lowered his hand and looked up at John. “I can see to that, if you would permit it.” He nodded down to John’s arm.

John moved his hand to reveal the blood-soaked section of sleeve. “Calm enough?”

“Yes.”

John pulled up his sleeve and scooted closer. Sherlock held his arm gently and did nothing but lick the wound until the cut stopped bleeding. He let go with a slight force of will. John pulled his sleeve back down. “You need to sleep.”

“I’ll leave you be then. Thank-”

“Where are you going to go?”

Sherlock looked at him, puzzled.

John pointed to his bed. “If you go out there, you’re more likely to be discovered, either by humans or wolves. Stay here.”

“I cannot accept.”

“You’ve let me sleep in your bed plenty. Shut up and go to sleep.”

Sherlock gave a tentative nod before crawling under the covers.

John realised he had never seen the vampire sleep before, and now Sherlock did so restlessly. John pulled his chair from his little table up next to the stove and sat. He drifted on and off, never sleeping more than a few minutes at a time, and always finding Sherlock tossing and turning.

When morning came, he left more blood in the bowl beside the bed and scribbled a note, leaving that on the table. He wrapped his reopened cut in some bandages he had stored away, changed his clothes, and left for work.

 

John wasn’t sure if he would find Sherlock still there when he came home, or in what state. But the vampire had remained, and was sleeping again, though the bowl had been emptied and once again licked clean. The note had been unfolded but left on the table. John tossed it into the stove and started making himself some supper.

Sherlock stirred while John was eating. He sat up in the bed and looked blearily about the room before settling an unfocused gaze on John. “What do you do?”

“Hm?”

“Your profession.”

“Physician’s assistant.”

Sherlock blinked himself a little more awake before saying, “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” John set aside his bowl. “How did you find me?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’d like to quench my unending curiosity.” John smiled.

“I went to those friends of yours first, Wiggins and the boy.”

“Toby. You didn’t scare them I hope?”

“Not intentionally. They said they hadn’t heard from you since around the time you came back here, but that you would be south of the river. I asked around, carefully of course. Eventually I came close enough that I could smell you out.”

“That’s a bit unnerving, but alright. How are you alive? Molly says they put your body on display. Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

“Good.”

“Good? How is that good? Mycroft’s a wreck. So is Mrs. Hudson.”

“They need to think I’m dead. It’s safer that way.”

“But it’s alright for me to know.”

“You’re less likely to be targeted. And I needed help. But you’ve helped me, so I will leave as soon as you ask me to.”

John sighed and shook his head. “No, it’s alright. So what happened?”

“James. We fought, supposedly to our mutual demise. However, I was more successful than my counterpart. I’m not surprised they thought I was dead; I hadn’t the strength to breathe when they carried me through the street and burned Mycroft’s home. They tossed me in the river after that. Their mistake.”

“Moran’s still alive.”

Sherlock grimaced. “I feared he might be. When I’m recovered sufficiently, he will be the last loose end.”

“Sherlock, the other vampires are gone. A lot of witches and shifters, too.”

“So they won after all, the mongrels.” The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned up into a humourless smile.

“What are you going to do?”

“Kill Sebastian Moran. If I’m still alive after that, take out as many dogs as I can.”

“Suicide.”

“I’ve little other reason to live.”

John grimaced. “A year ago, I would have been all in favour for that plan.”

Sherlock looked at him curiously. “And now?”

“Now I just think you’re being an idiot.”

“Everyone thinks I’m dead, John. I’ve lived a hundred and twenty-eight years. Victor and Mary are both gone. There’s no war. There’s nothing left to keep me here. I might as well go out being useful.”

“There’s always something, Sherlock. Go see Asia, Africa, the Americas. Learn every language there is. Watch medicine and science advance. Help it advance.”

“What would you do, if you were faced with possible eternity?” Sherlock glared at him. “Would you simply travel?”

John sat back, the question unexpected. “Maybe.”

“No. You would get bored of it, too.”

“Find somebody to spend eternity with then, like Mycroft and Greg. There’ll never be another Victor, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be someone.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I had been foolish enough to hope for that once. Once was enough.”

John sighed. “Is there anything I can say to convince you to change your mind?”

“Nothing you are likely to.” Sherlock yawned and settled back down in the bed.

“You’ve been having nightmares.”

Sherlock said nothing, his eyes already closed.

John picked up his chair and carried it over, setting it beside the head of the bed. Sherlock opened his eyes to half-glare at him. “Did Mary ever do it for you?”

“No.”

“I’ll give it a go then. Come on, close your eyes.”

Sherlock did so with obvious reluctance. He flinched at the first stroke of John’s fingers through his thick curls. With each subsequent one, though, he began to relax, and soon he was sleeping peacefully.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock spent the next several days and nights at John’s, though after the first two he refused to sleep in John’s bed when John himself needed rest. So they alternated, with John sleeping at night and working during the day, and Sherlock sleeping while John was out. The amount he slept, though, was steadily decreasing. He fed briefly every evening before John made and ate his own supper.

Something had been nagging at John for days, though, and he finally brought it up with Sherlock one night. “Moran said something to me, something he said was a message from Moriarty. I don’t know if it was true.”

“What was it?”

John bit the inside of his mouth before answering, “That Mary had been with child when she died.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock gave a solemn nod. “She told me before she left for that mission. She was going to tell you when she returned, but, when she was dying, she asked that I not reveal the information to anyone, especially you.”

John’s stomach twisted and he looked down.

“It may ease your mind to know the child’s survival was unlikely anyway. Mary would not have wanted to consume the amount of blood necessary-”

“How is that supposed to ease my mind?” John snapped.

Sherlock turned away. “I apologise.”

“I’m going to bed,” John declared, and Sherlock at once vacated the pallet. John stripped down to his drawers, his modesty around Sherlock long since gone. It helped that Sherlock was mindful enough to look away without John having to ask. John pulled on his thick wool nightshirt and climbed into bed. As he drifted off, he thought he heard Sherlock humming.

 

The next evening, John returned later than usual, but with a box under his arm, which he promptly presented to Sherlock.

“What is this?”

John dropped into his chair. “If you opened it, you’d find out.”

Sherlock unlatched the box and raised the lid to find a second-hand violin. “How did you afford this?”

“I’ve saved up a bit.”

“Why did you buy this?” Sherlock shut the box and set it aside on the mattress.

“I’m sure it’s not as good as the one you had, but, a bit of tuning, you’ll make it sound nice.”

“I’m preparing to more or less commit suicide, as you yourself put it, and you waste your money on this?” He gestured angrily to the box.

John was unwavering. “Maybe you’ll still change your mind. Or maybe you’ll teach me and after you’re dead I’ll use it.”

Sherlock picked up the box and shoved it in John’s direction. “Take it back.”

“I can spend my money however I like.” John started rolling up his sleeve.

“I’m not hungry tonight.”

John paused. “Promise to eat tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” he sighed. “My arm could use the break. Magically imbued saliva or not, I still think there’s a few unseen bruises.”

“I can leave.”

“Did I ask you to? Look, I don’t mind. Rather me than someone you’ll scare half to death.”

“And what if I changed my mind? What if I didn’t go after Moran?”

John watched him for a moment before responding, “I’m sure you’d figure it out.”

“Would you travel with me?”

“As your pet?” John frowned.

“As my… companion.”

“A friend.”

Sherlock gave a slow nod.

“Travel the world, huh? Can’t say it’s not appealing. Promise not to go no your suicide mission, and we’ll talk about it.”

Sherlock made no such promise, not yet at least. The longer he stuck around, though, the more John dared to hope.

 

After ignoring the violin for the first night and day, Sherlock finally took it out of its box and began tuning it. He complained about its poor craftsmanship, but still he played. John made no comment, though he smiled quietly to himself.

Soon, Christmas came, and John’s employer invited him to his home for Christmas dinner where he was pointedly introduced to the man’s niece. John spent the entire evening in polite conversation, but he excused himself early into the festivities.

As soon as he walked through the door, Sherlock leapt in front of him. “Where have you been?”

“Out. Why, what’s wrong?”

“Where?” Sherlock snapped, grabbing John by the shoulders.

“At a Christmas celebration. Sherlock, you’re hurting me.” He said it forcefully, and Sherlock released him at once.

“I apologise. I feared something may have happened to you.”

John hung up his cloak and went to stir the fire. “Like what?”

“Any number of things. Moran, the wolves.”

“I’ve been doing just fine on my own for quite some time now, Sherlock. Thanks for the concern, but it’s not necessary.” When he turned his back to the stove, Sherlock was looming right in front of him. “What’s wrong with you tonight?”

He grabbed John’s face and pressed his mouth to John’s in a harsh kiss.

John lurched back in surprised. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock simply pulled him back.

John tried fighting him off, but Sherlock had been recovering quickly, and John’s strength was no match. He groped behind him until he made contact with the poker. He swung it around and whacked Sherlock cleanly on the back of his head.

Sherlock stumbled back stunned, a hand up to the point of impact.

“What the hell,” John gasped, “was that?”

“Why can’t you see it, John?” Sherlock shouted.

“See what?” John yelled back.

“I want you, John! More than that, I need you. You’re the only reason I haven’t let Moran or the wolves kill me. You’re the only reason I’m alive.” He yanked the poker from John’s hands and tossed it out of reach. Before John could run, Sherlock grabbed him and threw him to the bed, pinning him instantly.

There was no way John could fight him off, not with brute strength. He shut his eyes and tried to think past the hands clawing away his clothes, the hot breath against his throat. His eyes shot open and he yelled in a strangled voice, “VICTOR.”

Sherlock’s hands hesitated, his breath distanced a little.

“Victor and James,” John panted. “What you’re doing, right now, to me. How is it different than what James did to Victor?”

Sherlock stroked his cheek. “I would never hurt you.”

John glared at him and shouted, “You’re hurting me right now!”

Sherlock scrambled back as if struck a second time.

John sat up and retreated to the head of the narrow bed. He refastened his trousers and did his best to straighten his shirt. When he looked up, he found Sherlock curled in on himself, hands plastered to his head. John wanted to be furious, to let anger course through him pure and undiluted, but his heart betrayed him and his anger was tempered by the pity he felt for Sherlock. “Sherlock,” he said quietly.

“I have nothing,” Sherlock growled. “Nothing. You were the one thing—I started to believe I could keep going, if I just had you.”

“I’m sorry I don’t feel the same way, but that doesn’t mean you give up on living.”

Sherlock looked up, black eyes on fire. “Don’t you understand?”

“No,” John replied quietly. “I don’t. And I might never understand. I still don’t think you should toss your life away like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not so easy.”

“Of course it’s not.” John scowled. “You think it was easy for me to keep going, night in and night out, being nothing more than a source of food? There were nights I wanted to kill myself. There were nights I wanted to let you starve so you could do it for me because I was too much of a coward to take my own life. And there were days I was foolish enough to think of running, knowing it was more likely to end in my death or my re-enslavement. But I didn’t. Maybe I feared death more than I feared you. Whatever it was, I hung on until something good happened. It did.”

“Then perhaps,” Sherlock said, his breath shuddering, “I am not as strong as you.”

“Like hell you’re not. You just have to hang on until you can find something that makes you want to stick around.”

“I want you!”

“Well you can’t have me!”

“Why not?”

John hadn’t expected the question, and it stunned him for a moment.

“I don’t want you as a pet. I want you like I wanted Victor—my partner, my equal.”

“Victor loved you.”

“I could make you love me, if you only gave me a chance.”

“No, Sherlock, you couldn’t.”

Sherlock snarled. “Because I’m a vampire? You loved Mary easily enough.”

“Because you’re a man.”

“Why are humans so hung up on such primitive boundaries?” Sherlock muttered to himself before looking back at John. “I would never ask you to do anything you wouldn’t do with a woman.” He leaned forward. “Victor penetrated me more often than the reverse. I liked it that way. I would let you take me, John. I want you to take me.”

“Stop it!” John scrambled off the bed and backed up. “Just stop it.” He turned his back to Sherlock and hugged his arms across his chest, shuddering.

He felt a blanket draped over his shoulders. When he turned around, he found Sherlock standing, face downcast, eyes clearer. “I apologise.”

“Do you?” John snapped. “Or are you still trying to get my trousers off?”

Sherlock turned his face away. “I mean it sincerely. I am sorry, John.”

“Good.” He brushed past Sherlock and sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over.

“Something… Did something happen to you in the past?”

John looked up at him. “What?”

“Did another man-”

“No,” John cut him off there. Then he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. “Kieran tried to, the night before I ran away. Eliza showed up and stopped him, though she didn’t sound exactly upset by the situation. He might have been trying to shake me up, but I think he would have gone through with it if he hadn’t been told outright to stop.”

“Kieran is-”

“I know, abhorrent even to your kind.”

“Dead.”

John’s head shot up. “What?”

Sherlock pulled up the chair and sat. “He’s dead. So is Eliza.”

“When? How?”

“Assassination. Perhaps hired by the wolves; perhaps acting on their own. It’s uncertain. But this world is without a Valden for the first time in millennia. It’s one of the reasons the wolves won the city so quickly; without even hope for Eliza’s protection or intervention, the vampires were too scared to stay. Most were gone before the wolves burned Mycroft’s house, before I was ‘killed’ and dumped in the river.”

“Won’t there be another Valden?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Tradition is that a new Valden arises when a challenger defeats the existing Valden in one-on-one combat.” He leaned his head back and sighed. “I imagine the whole realm is in an upset.”

“What are you going to do?”

Sherlock raised his head and looked at John. “As I said, it happened before my supposed death. It doesn’t impact my plans.”

“Which are?”

“Moran.”

John sighed and rubbed his face. “Alright, we’ll go after Moran.”

“We?”

“Yes, we. You’re not the only one with a reason.”

“John.” Sherlock hesitated.

“What?”

“Well, to be blunt, you’re weak.”

John smirked. “Physically, maybe. But we’re not going at this head-on. We’re going to come up with a better plan than ‘kill’. Alright?” He waited until Sherlock finally gave a tentative nod.


	7. Chapter 7

They put their plan into action the night after New Year’s. Before they stepped through the portal, Sherlock grabbed John’s arm. “I need to know something.”

“What?”

“The other night—you didn’t turn me out. Why?”

John shrugged. “You stopped, didn’t you? You stopped and you apologised and you didn’t try it again.” John ran a hand through his hair. “We all do stupid things.” There was more, more John hadn’t let himself think about and certainly wouldn’t at that moment.

“Thank you, John.”

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, and they crossed into the other London. It was just as wretchedly wet and cold there, maybe even more so. In a moment, Sherlock slipped from John’s side. He knew he was nearby, but John still had to take a moment to bolster his nerves.

Through weeks of careful reconnaissance, by asking the right people the right questions, they had managed to locate Sebastian Moran. He was living at the southernmost edge of the city, the last vampire permitted. From what the shifters and witches had told them, the wolves ignored him and let him survive off scraps, namely the impoverished and homeless who wandered too far from well-lit streets. For a man that had once been a reputable Hunter, he didn’t seem to have qualms about killing humans nowadays.

They had, through some miracle, obtained a pepperbox revolver, which John now carried in his frigid hand. He’d never shot a pistol before, but he didn’t need to be a good shot for this. When he was close enough to the rundown shack, he fired.

Moran came running out of the door, stopping dead when he saw John. He grinned. “Well, well. Tired of living?”

John fired again, this time at Moran. The bullet missed by a long shot.

Moran laughed. “A boy shouldn’t play with toys he doesn’t know how to use. Shall I show you?”

He had one shot left. “You’re not very good, are you?” he said, dropping the weapon to his side.

“I’m not very good?” His wicked smile faltered.

“They told me you used to be a Hunter, a real good one.”

“I was. The best.”

“Lost your touch then. Can’t even make sure one lousy vampire is dead.”

As the question began forming on Moran’s lips, Sherlock lunged from his blind spot and tackled him into the icy slush that was more dirt than snow. John bolted toward them. Sherlock was managing to keep Moran pinned facedown, but only just, and Moran was already beginning to turn the odds.

“Now, John!” Sherlock shouted.

John lifted the revolver and pointed it at Moran’s head, not ten centimetres away. He froze, finger on the trigger.

“JOHN.”

He pulled. The gun fell from his hand and he stumbled back, tripping and crashing into the mud.

Sherlock released the now motionless Moran and ran over to him. “Are you hurt?”

John began to shake his head. He brought his hands up to his face and stared at them. Blood. He’d seen blood before. He’d patched men up dozens of times. He’d poured his own blood into a cup for a vampire. But this—he could taste it on his lips. He rolled over and hurled.

When he was done, when his mind began to clear, he felt a hand on his back. He looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock offered his hand and helped him to his less than sturdy feet. He scraped off John didn’t want to know what from his face and shook it out onto the ground.

“Home?” Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded. “Home.”

They stopped at a public pump not too close to John’s flat to wash off most of the blood and bits John tried to ignore as he pulled them from his hair and clothes. When they were as cleaned as they could get without John freezing to death, they hurried home.

As soon as they were inside, John stripped and wrapped himself in his thickest blanket. He sat on the chair by the stove and immediately went to work building the fire.

“Goodbye, John.”

He looked up to find Sherlock still standing by the door.

“You’re leaving? Now?”

“It’s done.”

John turned back to stare at the fire. “Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry, John, but I can’t stay.”

“You asked me to travel with you.”

“I… misjudged the situation.”

John closed his eyes and tightened the blanket around his shoulders. “You’re not the only one who’s alone.”

He felt a cold hand brush through his wet hair. “You have more hope than me. You will find someone, and you will survive.”

John shook his head. “Everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve been through. Who am I going to find?”

“Quiet now. It’s simply the shock clouding your mind.”

“What about your mind?”

“Killing is nothing new to me, and I have been set on this path for some time now.”

John glared up at him. “You can’t leave. You can’t just go let yourself be killed. It’s- It’s selfish.”

“Selfish?”

“Yes, selfish! When you leave, I’m alone. Who am I going to trust after you’re gone? Hunters? Knowing what I know about you, knowing that not everyone on your side of the portals is a killer? An animal? Should I go to the other side? Even protected, I wouldn’t find a home there. You’re the only one. You’re my friend, Sherlock, and the only true friend I’ll ever have after tonight.”

Sherlock gave him a soft, sad smile. “After the way I treated you? A year ago-”

“Was a year ago. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. Hell, I’ve changed in the last hour.” He forced an uneasy smile.

“You are strong, John. You have always been strong, and you will always be strong.”

John leapt to his feet. “No I’m not! I’m not strong. I’m weak and I’m scared and I don’t want to be left alone.” He was trembling and his eyes burned.

Sherlock looked taken aback, but then he wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

“How do you see me?” John muttered against Sherlock’s cold, damp clothes.

“Brilliant. Bright and full of potential.” He held John back to meet his gaze. “I saw it from the start. I acted poorly, but I saw the fire in you. It was so damped where you were, it hurt to see something so wonderful be so stifled.”

“I’m not-”

Sherlock pressed his fingers to John’s mouth. “You asked how I saw you. Don’t argue with my answer.”

John took Sherlock’s hand and lowered it. “Don’t go.”

“I have-”

“If I become your lover, will you stay?”

Sherlock looked surprised before his brow creased and he turned his head. “You should not say such things so lightly.”

“I’m not. Sherlock I won’t know what to do if you leave. Physician’s assistant? I was living on the hope that you would send word about Moriarty’s death. That’s what kept me going! I don’t care about finding a wife and having a family. I just don’t want to be alone. And if you leave, with everything I’ve been through in the last year and a half, with everything I know and I’ve experienced—if you leave me with that, I will always be alone.”

Sherlock refused to look at him.

“If I have to become your lover to do that, I will.”

“Don’t, John.”

“What?”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes fierce and dark. “Do not offer such things so easily.”

“You were ready to take it from me.”

“And I was wrong in doing so, as you so aptly pointed out.”

John reached up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down to kiss him, the blanket falling to the ground.

After a short-lived kiss, Sherlock pried him off. “Stop it, John! You cannot ask this of me!”

“Why not?” John scowled.

“I already told you. I do not want to own you, to use you.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“Yes, I would. If you offered yourself to me like this—as a way to make me stay and nothing more, nothing honest—that is exactly what I would be doing.” He picked up the blanket and draped it back over John’s shoulders. “I won’t leave, not tonight, but I make no promises beyond that.”

 

John woke to the sounds of heavy rain and the violin. He sat up only to shiver against the cold, a reminder he was still bare beneath the blankets. He tugged them up and wrapped himself in their warmth.

The violin stopped. “Did I wake you?”

“I don’t think so,” John murmured. “You don’t have to stop.”

In the dark, faintly outlined by the soft glow from the stove, Sherlock put his violin back beneath his chin and continued. When he finished the song, whatever it was, John gave a little applause. Sherlock whispered, “You should go back to sleep. It’s only been a few hours.”

“Can we talk?”

“I think it would be best-”

“I’m not going to sleep soundly until we talk.”

Sherlock sighed and brought the chair closer to the bed.

“You were right. My head wasn’t right last night. I’d never killed someone before; I’d only ever fixed people.” He took a deep, steadying breath to root himself. “I don’t know if loving you is something I could ever learn. I do know that I’ve grown fond of your company, and I do know that, if you leave, I don’t believe I’ll truly find real happiness on my own. Maybe I’m being pessimistic, but that’s how it seems right now. You want an equal. So do I. No one I ever meet will be, except you.”

“John-”

“Wait. I’m not done.” He made sure to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I also know you wouldn’t be using me. I’d tell you if I didn’t want it anymore. I’d expect you to back off if it came to that. I am fond of you. Maybe, with time, I could love you. I don’t know.” He bit the inside of his mouth and looked away. “I didn’t know with Mary either.”

Sherlock’s fingers took his chin gently and turned his face back toward himself. “I swear to you, John, I will never try to force anything on you again.”

John took his hand and pulled it down, but he held onto it. “I believe you.”

Sherlock leaned forward, but he hesitated. So John closed the distance and kissed him. He didn’t know if he expected it to be different from kissing women, but it wasn’t, not once he got used to the faint scrape of stubble on stubble. Sherlock was a wonderful kisser, though, and soon he was leaning John back onto the bed. John let him, all the while aware that Sherlock was doing what he could to undress without breaking the kiss. Eventually, he had to pull off his shirt.

John lifted himself on his elbows. The sight of another man naked before him wasn’t particularly startling; the partly erect penis was. Sherlock climbed onto the bed and knelt over John with a leg on either side of his thighs. “What do I do?” John said, his voice cracking slightly.

“Watch,” Sherlock whispered. He then inserted two fingers his mouth and began to suck them. At the same time, he began rubbing himself until he was fully erect. When he was, he pulled his fingers slowly from his mouth and reached behind.

It took John a moment to realise what Sherlock was doing, his jaw relaxed and his head hung back a little. When John made the connection, his own mouth went a little slack. He watched, rapt with fascination.

Sherlock pulled his fingers out and rolled his head around until he was looking at John again, eyes heavily lidded. Then he looked down and pulled away the blankets.

John was still flaccid, and he felt oddly embarrassed about the fact. It seemed Sherlock had a solution in mind however. He bent down and began licking the head, prodding the tip of his tongue beneath the foreskin.

John gasped at the sensation, body going rigid with shock as much as with pleasure. His arms flailed out for purchase, and one of them found it in Sherlock’s curls. He began to pull away when Sherlock reached up with his dry hand and pressed John’s palm onto his head. So John set his other hand on the mattress, and he slowly curled his fingers into those thick dark curls.

Sherlock put his other hand to work as well, forming a tight ring with his thumb and forefinger at the base of the shaft and pulled slowly up and down. All the while, he continued to use his mouth and tongue on the head and glans, which were gradually coming free of the foreskin as John began to swell.

When John was fully erect, Sherlock pulled away with a wet suck that made John shudder all over. Sherlock repositioned himself closer to John’s torso. With a gentle pressure to his shoulder, he eased him back down. He held John’s cock to line up with his anus and slowly began lowering himself until John breached him.

John breathed in sharply. The head was barely in, and already it felt so tight. He didn’t miss Sherlock’s expression, though, eyes screwed tight. “Are you alright?” he panted.

“Saliva,” Sherlock said breathily, “is not the ideal lubricant, but it will be sufficient.”

“What- What is?”

“Oil, usually olive oil.”

John nodded silently, and Sherlock pushed down a little more. A sudden wave of panic overtook John. He didn’t know why, but suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He needed Sherlock off of him. “Wait. Wait! Stop. Get off!”

Sherlock lifted himself off immediately and sat back. “What’s wrong? Did it hurt?”

John scrambled into a sitting position. “No, no. I don’t know.” He shut his eyes and pressed his knuckles into his temples. “Not that. Not like that.”

“Is this better?”

John looked up and found Sherlock laying back on the bed, thighs spread wide and hips tilted up to expose his stretched anus. “I told you, John,” he said quietly. “I want you to take me.”

The panic subsided quickly. “Wait.” John scrambled off the bed and to his shelves. After searching mostly from memory and feel in the darkness, he returned with a small bottle. “It’s castor oil.” He uncorked it and handed it to Sherlock.

John climbed back onto the bed and watched. Sherlock poured a little onto his already used hand and gave the bottle back to John, who sealed it and set it on the floor. Sherlock reached down and began fingering himself again. John watched, entranced with the process. He wondered if it was pleasurable. He wondered what it would feel like if he-

“That should do,” Sherlock huffed and removed his fingers.

John nodded and moved closer. As he began to push into Sherlock, he couldn’t help but watch in slight awe. It looked and felt entirely different than penetrating a woman. Sherlock’s body practically pulled him in.

“Look at me.”

John looked up. Sherlock was panting, his face flush and eyes half-lidded. John made the final push and watched Sherlock’s face contort in pleasure, a groan slipping from his lips. John folded himself over Sherlock, pushing Sherlock’s legs further toward his head in the process. He pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s, and Sherlock immediately drew him into a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. As they kissed, Sherlock’s body began to relax around John’s presence inside of him. John gave a tentative thrust, and Sherlock moaned into his mouth, his entire body pulsing around John.

Sherlock broke away from John’s mouth and gasped, “Like that. Perfect!”

“What? What was it?”

Sherlock smiled up at John, languid and aroused. “You read Vesalius.”

“Yes, the volumes on vampires and werewolves and the metamorphoses of the bites. Neither of those texts mentioned intercourse with another man.”

“It’s a glandulous body. Its exact function is still unknown, but it’s believed to have some role in the production of semen.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck and pulled him closer. “And it is incredibly stimulating when pressed upon in the right manner.”

John found his breath shallow when he asked, “What’s the right manner?”

Sherlock grinned. “Pull out. Not entirely. About halfway.”

John did as instructed, groaning at the pressure around his cock.

“Push in slowly. Try to angle yourself up. You’ll know when you hit it.”

John nodded and pushed back in. As he did, Sherlock lifted his hips to shift the angle. John wasn’t completely in when Sherlock convulsed around him, moaning even louder this time. John was breathing hard. The tightness was almost too much. He pulled back again, and repeated the motion.

“Good,” Sherlock managed to grunt. “Little faster. Harder, too.”

John did again, this time with a bit more force. He built a steady rhythm, and he felt the heat coiling tight inside him would not last long.

With one arm still wrapped around John’s neck, Sherlock moved his other hand to his own erection. He began fisting himself in time with John’s thrusts until he cried out. His spine arched up, and he went rigid around John. It took John by surprise, and the increased pressure quickly pushed him into his own orgasm. Neither of them was quiet about it.

As soon as Sherlock’s body went lax, John pulled out of him and sat back. Sherlock pushed himself up and brought his hand to his mouth—and began licking his own semen.

“What are you doing?”

“Would you like to taste?” Sherlock offered his slick fingers.

“No!”

Sherlock chuckled and retracted his hand. “Perhaps another time. Hand me my shirt, would you?”

John leaned over and picked up the already filthy thing. He tossed it to Sherlock, who promptly used it to wipe off his hands and stomach and penis. He offered it to John to clean his own. John took it tentatively and, despite himself, sniffed. Beyond the cloth itself, there was a salty smell. Embarrassed, he quickly cleaned himself off and tossed it on the floor.

“I hope that was as enjoyable for you as it was for me.”

John gave a slow nod. “It was different, though.”

“Of course it was.”

John yawned and shivered slightly. The heat of two bodies in heightened arousal was quickly disappearing.

Sherlock grabbed the blankets and converged on John, pulling him down onto the bed and covering them both. He wrapped his lanky arms around John’s torso and twisted one leg through John’s.

John couldn’t force himself to relax in the position until Sherlock kissed his shoulder—on his scar. A moment passed, and then a second kiss, and John closed his eyes. A third, and his breathing came slower. A fourth, and he finally began to sink into Sherlock’s embrace. A fifth came, but by the he was already asleep.


	8. Epilogue

They stepped out of the train station into a London they had never seen before, not outside photographs at least. They wouldn’t be staying long—only the night—tourists in their own home town.

“Hm,” Sherlock mused as he looked about the city. Like many cities of this age, the night in this world did not bring about much quiet.

John smiled. “What is it this time?”

“It’s less impressive than New York.”

John chuckled. “London’s got skyscrapers too, you know.”

“There are currently five buildings in New York City that are taller than London’s Shard. Over seventy in the world.”

“Alright, alright. There’s more to grandeur than how big you can make something.”

“It does, however, have the world’s third tallest Ferris wheel.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

Sherlock turned to him with a smirk. “Would you accept?”

John held out his arm, and Sherlock looped his through. “One ride. Then we’ve got to catch a train to Cardiff.”

“I really don’t see why we have to visit that insufferable-”

“Oi, we made a deal.”

“Very well. But Sydney better be worthwhile this time.”

“It’s been over sixty years since our last visit. I’m sure it’s changed plenty.”

Sherlock simply huffed and held out his hand to hail a cab. As always, no matter what city or village they were in, he always seemed to conjure transportation for them instantly. He opened the door of the black car and gestured for John to enter first. When they were both in and on their way to the South Bank, Sherlock pulled the latest style of mobiles from his coat.

“Should never have let you get one of those,” John muttered.

“John.”

“Hm?”

He held the phone out to John. There was a news article on the screen, the headline of which read _Unknown Wild Animal Attacks Continue_. “Oh no.” John shoved the phone back.

“It would be a service to our city.” He smiled at John. It was a smile John had not been able to resist in a very, very long time.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and slumped in his seat. “Fine.”

“Change of plans, driver. Take us to New Scotland Yard.”

“If we get caught,” John muttered.

“When have we ever been caught?” Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s and locked their fingers together. “Better let Greg know we might be an evening or two late.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“One you’ve stuck by for two hundred years.” Sherlock kissed the side of his head, and John couldn’t help but grin as a bit of blood rushed to his head, flushing his cheeks with a pleasant warmth and thrill. Sherlock could still make him feel like that, still impart a feeling of exhilaration that always reminded John of the first time he tasted his lover’s blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to all my wonderful readers. Whether you've been with me since the first chapter of the first part, or are joining me after all is said and done. I truly appreciate that you have enjoyed this story. It means a lot to me. More than just any fanfic, since the world is one that has been with me half my life.
> 
> Second, I could write an entire novel about the 200 years between the last chapter and the epilogue, about how their relationship grew and John's turning and their travels and antics and their fights and their love. Sadly, I don't have that time. Writing this fanfic has encouraged me to go back to the original stories upon which this world is based. There's a whole novel I have planned for Kieran's (and Eliza's) story, and that isn't even the first. 
> 
> So thank you, and I am glad you have enjoyed it, but this story ends here.
> 
> ♥ Z


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